#eddie fluff

You were his half-sister, a celestial body of a different sort: a varsity cheerleader with a smile that could halt traffic and a reputation so spotless it practically gleamed under the judgmental fluorescent lights. Your world was built on the sharp, clean scent of gymnasium polish and the saccharine cloud of cheap hairspray. You knew the comforting weight of a borrowed letterman's jacket on your shoulders and found solace in the crisp, certain pages of textbooks you aced without breaking a sweat. Your kingdom was the sun-drenched bleachers and the roaring Friday night crowd, a world of clear rules and tangible victories.

Yet, your gravitational pulls were inextricably linked. The same silence that fell in the Henderson household after a bad day held space for both of you. A shared glance across the cafeteria could communicate a universe of support—a raised eyebrow from him when a jock said something particularly dumb, a subtle, encouraging nod from you when he walked into a room full of snickers. 

You existed within the same four walls, bound by the same history of shared Christmases and silent, understanding looks across the dinner table when your mom got that tone in her voice. 

It was a conscious, carefully maintained orbit. Easier this way. Safer. A silent pact, signed not with a handshake but with a thousand averted gazes in the school hallway, to let the other survive in their own habitat, untouched by the particular predators that stalked the other's world.

The different last names were the first line of defence, a bureaucratic blessing that drew a clear, public line in the sand. The only partial, faintly visible shared genetics—a similar, mischievous curve at the corner of a smile, perhaps, or the same habit of raising an eyebrow in sceptical unison—were subtle enough to be dismissed as coincidence. They were ghosts of a relation, nothing the casual observer would ever think to trace back to its source.

It was a convenient truth, one that required no effort to conceal because no one in your respective orbits ever thought to look for it. Their attention spans were too short, their worlds too self-contained. The jocks, scanning the bleachers for a flicker of your approval, their vision clouded by the sheen of your varsity jacket, never once glanced toward the dim, chaotic sanctuary of the drama room where he held court with a twenty-sided die and a grand plan. Conversely, his fellow dungeon crawlers, locked in fervent debate over a demogorgon’s tactical weaknesses or the arcane politics of the Upside Down, would never think to seek a cheerleader’s opinion. Why would they? You were a resident of a different planet entirely, one where the only monsters were social ones, and the only battles fought for a spot on the homecoming court.

Mike and Lucas knew the full story, of course. Having been officially adopted into the Henderson fold years ago—their DNA practically rewritten by shared trauma and a thousand sleepovers—they were the keepers of the file. They treated the knowledge not with gossipy excitement, but with the grim, procedural gravity of a top-secret government dossier. It was a need-to-know truth, and they, as senior operatives in the chaotic landscape that was their adolescence, needed to know.

To them, your familial connection was not a piece of salacious trivia; it was a strategic datum. They understood its importance to the delicate ecosystem of their own lives, a key piece of intelligence that explained certain logistical realities. They saw no tactical advantage in disseminating it to the wider population. In the high school warzone, some intel was best kept compartmentalised.

To Mike and Lucas, it was just another feature on the strange, complicated map of Hawkins—a faded, familial ley line that connected the gleaming, alien territory of the gym to the familiar, sacred ground of the basement game room. They were content, diligent cartographers that they were, to let that particular line remain faint, unmarked, and undrawn for everyone else. It wasn't a secret to be kept, but a boundary to be respected—one of the many silent, unspoken rules that kept their small, fiercely protected world turning.

And at the heart of it all, your bond with Dustin was the one thing that felt unshakably, undeniably real. In a world of performative friendships and shifting alliances, it was your bedrock. While your cheer squad smiled with gritted teeth through whispered rivalries, and your study partners were temporary allies of convenience, Dustin was your anchor. He was your constant in a universe of variables.

You were the first, slightly hysterical call after a disastrous, stammering attempt to talk to Suzie, listening without judgment to the replay of every fumbled word. You were his designated driver to the arcade, your payment rendered in a palmful of stale Skittles and a running commentary of scientific trivia that you only half-understood but wholly adored because it was his. When the storms of teenage angst or high school hierarchy grew too wild, you were the safe harbour he could always sail into, no questions asked.

The two of you were a sealed system, a closed circuit of unconditional support. In the carefully partitioned worlds you both navigated—you in your kingdom of pom-poms and pep rallies, him in his empire of dice and demodogs—your relationship was the one place where you could both stand down. You didn't have to be the perfect cheerleader or the formidable nerd. You could just be. He was more than a brother; he was home base. And in a game where the rules were always changing, that was everything.

But now, a different kind of storm was brewing on the horizon—one that smelled of worn leather, damp weed, and the electric ozone of cheap thrash metal. It had a physical form: a whirlwind of restless energy contained within a wiry frame, a symphony of silver rings on every finger, and warm, knowing brown eyes that seemed to see past every carefully constructed façade to the raw wiring beneath. It had a voice, too—a low, compelling rasp that could command a room of misfits with a single dramatic flourish or shred a guitar solo that felt like bottled lightning, dangerous and brilliant.

As Eddie "The Freak" Munson sank his claws into your brother's life with the fervor of a prophet finding a new disciple, he didn't just bring a new friend. He brought a whole new religion of chaos, a doctrine of unapologetic rebellion preached from the pulpit of a beaten-up lunchroom table. He was the untamable variable in your brother's once-predictable scientific equations, the glitch in the system. He was a living, breathing monster manual entry that broke all the established rules, and Dustin was studying him with rapt, unwavering fascination.

And with every late-night D&D session that ran past curfew, with every cursed cassette tape of screeching guitars that filtered under Dustin's bedroom door and into the fabric of your quiet home, you felt it. The careful, quiet peace you’d built together—the delicate equilibrium of your separate orbits—began to tremble on its very foundations. 

Eddie had always nursed a grudging, privately entertained soft spot for you from afar, a fact he’d readily—and theatrically—lament after a few beers in the sanctuary of his trailer. "It's a classic tragedy, man!" he'd proclaim, gesturing wildly with a bottle. "The king of the freaks, laid low by the most predictable cliché in the book!" And who could blame him? Who didn't harbor some distant, starlit admiration for you? You were the holy trifecta of high school divinity: smoking hot, disgustingly popular, and—most bafflingly of all—seemingly, genuinely nice.

You didn't sneer at the freaks and losers from your gleaming throne atop the social food chain. You didn't deploy your squad like mean-girl infantry to carve up the school's underbelly for sport. No, you were far more subversive. You just offered a benign, traffic-stopping smile that never quite reached the eyes of the people who didn't matter, and moved on with your charmed life, utterly unbothered. It was a quiet, effortless power that was the complete antithesis of his own loud, performative existence. You weren't playing the game; you were so far above it, you didn't even know there was a game. And that, to Eddie Munson, was the most infuriatingly, intriguingly charming thing he’d ever witnessed.

Lately, however, that dormant soft spot had begun to itch, a persistent, distracting sensation under his skin, like a corrupted track on a well-worn cassette that kept skipping back to the same maddening riff. It was a glitch in his own carefully curated persona. And suddenly, his perception had shifted, his vision attuned to your frequency. He was seeing you everywhere, your golden, sun-bleached presence a stark and polluting contrast to the grim, familiar corners of his world.

There you were, a vision of pristine varsity wool and effortless cool leaning against the scuffed, graffiti-marred lockers outside the science lab. But the real anomaly wasn't your location—it was the fact you were actually listening, head tilted, a real, unguarded laugh bursting from your lips at something Henderson said. The sound was a clean, sharp note that cut through the hallway's dull roar, and it hooked itself directly into his brain.

There you were again, parked in your obnoxiously shiny, parent-approved car right outside Family Video. You were drumming your perfectly manicured fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he couldn't hear—his beat, he irrationally hoped, something fast and violent—while you waited for Dustin to run his nerd errands. You were a splash of vibrant color on his monochrome map of Hawkins, a siren's call from the deck of a ship he was supposed to be torpedoing. And he was utterly, infuriatingly captivated.

Each sighting was a new, confounding data point that refused to fit into any of his pre-existing theories. You weren't just a flat, one-dimensional poster girl on the wall of high school hierarchy; you were a living, breathing person, with a laugh that disarmed him and a taste in music he was suddenly, irrationally dying to identify. The mystery, much to his own horror, was deepening from a casual curiosity into a full-blown fixation. And Eddie Munson, self-proclaimed connoisseur of chaos and the arcane, had never been able to resist a good puzzle, especially one that looked so damn good.

And so, cornering Dustin Henderson became Eddie’s new, and most frustrating, extracurricular activity. He was a man possessed, a hunter on a singular, maddening quest for intel. He transformed into a shadow in the crowded halls, a lurking predator lying in wait by his locker with a too-casual lean. He became an "unexpected" companion who fell into step on the walk to the parking lot after Hellfire, his questions veiled in a cloak of feigned nonchalance that was as subtle as a hammer to glass. "So, the cheerleader," he'd start, clapping a hand on Dustin's shoulder, his voice a studied casual drawl that fooled no one. "She, uh... she always your chauffeur, Henderson, or are you just that lucky?"

Each encounter was a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as casual conversation, a verbal chess game where all roads, no matter how winding, were ruthlessly designed to lead to a single, burning topic: You. 

He was a grandmaster of subterfuge, laying traps for a prodigy, and the school hallways were their board.

"Hey, Henderson," he'd start, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders that was just a little too tight to be friendly. The scent of leather, clove cigarettes, and weed descending like a palpable warning cloud. "Saw you getting a personal audience with Her Royal Shininess again. What's the deal? You, uh… hire her for a morale campaign? Gotta say, man, the psychological warfare is top-tier."

Dustin, to his immense credit, was a veritable fortress of evasion, a master of misdirection who had, after all, helped save the world by lying to panicked government agents and his own mother. "Something like that," he'd say with an infuriatingly nonchalant shrug, never breaking stride. He wouldn't just deny—he'd counter-attack, expertly parrying every thrust with a strategically deployed question about the next campaign's monster roster or a technical debate on a new module's rule set. It was like trying to grab smoke with his bare hands.

Each failed interrogation, each expertly deflected question, only cemented a maddening truth in Eddie's mind: Henderson wasn't just being private; he was actively protecting something. He had classified information, and he was following a protocol Eddie wasn't cleared for. And Eddie Munson, connoisseur of secrets and the forbidden, had never encountered a lock he didn't immediately, obsessively need to pick until it gave up all its treasures.

Eddie's attempts grew increasingly desperate, his subtlety evaporating like cheap beer in the July sun. His interrogations became so transparent that even the wide-eyed freshmen, who usually scurried out of his path like frightened beetles, would pause to watch the spectacle. 

"So, Henderson," he'd begin, materialising at his side with a jolt of manic energy that made Dustin visibly brace himself, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. "A theoretical question for the group's head of logistics. Does our resident solar deity ever, I don't know, express any opinions on local counter-culture? Inquire about the band's seminal demo? Maybe... feel a sudden, profound need to probe the tortured, creative vision of the lead guitarist?" He wiggled his ring-clad fingers for emphasis, the picture of artistic anguish.

Dustin, the unflappable stone wall in Eddie's hurricane of neediness, didn't even look up from the complex chemical equation in his textbook. "She asked if you actually passed any of your classes," he replied, his tone flat as a week-old pancake. "I told her it was a coin toss on a good day and that she should probably pray for your immortal soul." The verbal pin landed with sniper-like precision, popping the inflated balloon of Eddie's ego with a sad, quiet fizzle.

The problem, the true, moustache-twirling villain of this entire farce, was the clock. The three-minute passing period was a cruel and unforgiving master, its final bell a death knell to his progress, severing his interrogations with the brutal finality of a guillotine. He was trying to walk a razor-thin line between casually curious and full-blown stalker, and he was failing so miserably he might as well have been face-down on the linoleum, tasting the wax and his own humiliation. Every time he felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough—a single, unguarded word, a hint of a crack in the fortress walls—Dustin would deflect with the preternatural skill of a CIA operative, offering a crumb of meaningless gossip about Steve Harrington's latest hair crisis before slipping into a classroom and vanishing. The slamming door was a brutal, full-stop punctuation mark on his failure, leaving Eddie standing alone in the suddenly silent hallway, more bewildered and hopelessly intrigued than before, the ghost of your name dying on his lips.

The mystery of you and Dustin Henderson was no longer a casual side-quest. It was escalating, mutating in the petri dish of his mind into the greatest, most compelling unsolved campaign of his life. The whiteboard in his trailer was now a chaotic web of questions and theories, connected by red string and pure, unadulterated fixation. He was done playing by the rules of polite inquiry. Eddie Munson was fully prepared to burn the whole damn rulebook, shred the map, and roll a natural twenty on a shot in the dark if it meant finally uncovering the truth.

The roar of the Friday night crowd is a distant, ghostly echo, a world away from his sanctuary—a rickety picnic table shrouded in the woods behind the football field. This is his kingdom of shadows and silence, the one place where Eddie "The Freak" Munson could let his guard down.

Right now, his guard is in tatters.

He is supposed to be plotting his next campaign, a strategic masterstroke to finally, finally talk to you. But his mental playbook, once filled with clever subterfuge and silver-tongued gambits, is now just a collection of pathetic, crumpled failures. Just ask her about Dustin, the logical part of his brain pleads. It’s the perfect in! But the rest of him, the part that turns to a puddle of incoherent mush whenever he sees you, rebels. What if he sounds like a stalker? What if his voice cracks? What if he, in a moment of peak Munson misfortune, spontaneously combusts at your feet?

He’s so deep in this cycle of self-flagellation that he doesn't hear a thing—not a footfall, not a snapped twig, not a single rustle of leaves. Which is why the voice, smooth and clear as polished glass, slices through the quiet from directly behind him and nearly sends his soul launching into orbit.

"I heard you've been asking about me."

Eddie jolts so hard the table shudders in sympathy. His heart isn't just pounding; it’s performing a frantic, double-kick-drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm for the panic coursing through him. He spins around, his rings scraping against the weathered wood.

And there you are.

It was as if you’ve materialised from the shadows themselves, a phantom made flesh, bathed in the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy. His mind, usually a whirlwind of witty retorts and theatrical flair, goes utterly, completely blank. All that remained is a single, screaming thought: Abort mission. System failure. Total, catastrophic, and humiliating system failure.

A soft, melodic laugh escapes you as he fumbles, his limbs turning to tangled marionette strings. He practically falls off the bench in a clatter of silver rings and frayed denim, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Before he can even attempt to reclaim a shred of dignity, you’re moving.

Completely uninvited, you smoothly take a seat on the bench opposite him, folding your hands primly on the weather-beaten wood as if you were holding court in a king’s hall, not some shady clearing. The move is so audaciously calm, so utterly self-possessed, that it leaves him mentally reeling, grasping for a handhold in a world that has suddenly tilted off its axis.

His brain, desperate for any port in this storm of your presence, latches onto the first ridiculous lie it can find. “Who, me? Asking about—? Pfft. No, I was just… conducting a sociological survey on the migratory patterns of the common jock,” he deflects, the words tumbling out in a rushed, defensive jumble. A sociological survey? He sounds like a complete dork. A poser. A fool.

The panic is a neon sign plastered all over his face, he’s sure of it. And the way your smile widens, just a fraction at the corners of your mouth, tells him it only amuses you more. It’s not a mocking smile, but something far more dangerous: a genuinely entertained one.

His gaze follows yours as you nod your head towards his contraband scattered across the graffiti-scarred table—the worn leather pouch, the rolling papers, the bag of mid-grade schlock. And a sudden, piercing regret lances through him, so sharp and specific it’s almost comical. He wishes, more than anything, that he’d brought the good weed. The sacred, top-shelf stash he reserved for solo nights contemplating the cosmos and his own magnificent failures. Not this dry, pedestrian schlock he palmed off to desperate freshmen for gas money. The thought is utterly, pathetically vain, but it’s there: he wants to impress you, even with his weed, and he has already, catastrophically, failed.

“How much?” you ask, your voice slicing clean through his internal lament.

His mouth moves on pure, unadulterated instinct, completely bypassing the shred of his brain that runs a business. “For you? First one’s on the house,” he says, his voice cracking on the word ‘house,’ pitching a humiliating notch too high. He fumbles through his leather pouch, fingers finally closing around what he deems a relatively respectable joint. The moment his fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, a jolt shoots up his arm—static-sharp and disconcertingly warm. The thought flashes, unbidden and terrifyingly sincere: He’d hand you his whole damn stash for free. His van keys. The master copy of Corroded Coffin’s demo tape. Possibly his still-beating heart, if you kept looking at him with that unreadable, captivating glint in your eyes.

Then, you shift the entire universe.

Without a word, you produce a sleek, silver lighter from your skirt pocket. It’s a mundane object, but seeing it on your person, knowing you carry this small tool of controlled arson, feels impossibly intimate. He watches, utterly mesmerised, as you bring the neatly rolled joint to your lips. The act is practised, effortless, and it steals the air from his lungs.

You take a slow, deep inhale. The tip glows a fierce, brilliant orange in the dimming light, and for a surreal second, he feels like he’s witnessing a sacred ritual. You hold it for a beat, your eyes fluttering slightly, before you tilt your head back and blow a smooth, grey plume into the dappled forest air. It’s not a cough or a sputter, but a perfect, controlled stream that dances with the motes of dust in the sunbeams.

A soft, content sigh leaves you, and it’s the most relaxed, unguarded sound he’s ever heard you make. It’s a sound that wraps around him, and he knows, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he is in deep, deep trouble.

“You’re staring again, Munson.”

Your voice is a low hum, laced with amusement. Your eyes flutter open to catch him in the act, and they’re clearer now, more focused, piercing through the hazy air and seeing right through the fragile fortress of his cool. He quickly looks away, feigning a sudden, intense interest in the gnarled bark of a nearby oak tree as if it holds the secrets of the universe. His cheeks burn with a tell-tale heat he’s desperately grateful you can’t feel.

“Just didn’t know you smoked,” he counters, the words a weak, transparent defence against the gentle accusation in your tone. He knows it’s a pathetic excuse, knows it’s about so much more than tobacco or weed. It’s about the fact that he’s been quietly building a shrine to you in the dusty, hidden corners of his mind, and you just walked in and casually rearranged all the furniture, leaving him disoriented and in awe.

A slow, knowing smile plays on your lips, a silent testament to the fact that you see right through him, and you don't seem to mind. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me yet.”

Yet.

The word doesn't just hang in the air; it detonates. A single, three-letter promise that throws a gallon of gasoline directly onto the already raging fire of his curiosity. It’s an invitation that makes his pulse stutter. A challenge that his entire being itches to accept. A future tense that sends his mind spiralling into a dozen different, thrilling possibilities—shared mixtapes, late-night drives in his van, the secret sound of your laugh when it's meant just for him. It’s the most terrifying and beautiful word he’s ever heard.

Panicking under the weight of that single, terrifyingly beautiful promise, he’s rambling again before his brain can even think to engage the clutch. “I’ve, uh—I’ve got some better stuff. Back at the trailer. The good shit, you know? The kind that… unlocks the secrets of the universe. Or, you know, just makes Deep Purple sound even more fucking epic.” He’s babbling, digging the hole deeper with every word. “If you’d ever be… interested.”

The invitation hangs in the air between you, as clumsy and transparent as a sheet of Saran Wrap. He might as well have just handed you a poorly photocopied flyer that read, in Comic Sans, ‘Please Come To My Sad Trailer So I Can Stare At You More Efficiently.’

You cock a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, a silent masterpiece of judgment and amusement. The gesture is a physical thing, driving the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of his words like a hot spike directly into his already fragile ego. He can feel it—a full-body cringe that starts at the soles of his boots and vibrates up to the tips of his hair. He can practically feel his soul trying to vacate his body, peeling itself away from this mortifying reality out of pure, unbridled shame, desperately seeking refuge in the Upside Down where the social stakes are, frankly, less terrifying.

You actually seem to contemplate the offer, your gaze drifting past him into the shadow-dappled woods as if mentally consulting some invisible, infinitely more interesting social calendar. The pause stretches, a taut, excruciating silence filled only by the frantic thrum of his own pulse in his ears. It lasts just long enough for him to fully register the monumental, soul-crushing magnitude of his own idiocy. He’s already scripting his retreat, the mumbled apology, the vow to never speak again.

Then, your answer nearly knocks him clean off his seat and into next week.

“Sure. Why not.”

It’s so casual, so utterly, devastatingly nonchalant, that his brain simply short-circuits. The words don’t compute. They’re a syntax error in the carefully constructed code of his social anxiety. He swears you’re giving him psychological whiplash; he can’t keep up with the violent, nauseating shifts between his own spiraling panic and your preternatural calm. It’s like being caught in a hurricane that has the manners to sip a cup of tea at its very centre.

“Wait… really?” The words escape him in a stunned, breathy rush, all his usual theatrical bravado stripped away, leaving only the raw, disbelieving shock of a man who just hit the jackpot he never dared to buy a ticket for.

A ghost of a smirk, there and gone in a heartbeat, touches your lips. “Don’t have any plans tonight,” you shrug, the picture of nonchalance, as if agreeing to hang out in his shabby trailer was the most mundane decision in the world, like choosing what to watch on TV. But your eyes tell a different story—they glint with a sharp, knowing challenge. “Unless you don’t actually want me to come over?”

The banter feels familiar, a verbal volley he recognizes from a hundred lunchroom skirmishes and hallway arguments. It’s a rhythm he knows how to dance to. And yet, he’s completely disarmed. He’s a swordsman who has not only forgotten his blade but has forgotten which end is the hilt. All his usual sarcastic comebacks, the clever retorts that usually stream so effortlessly to form a protective, witty moat around the fortress of his insecurities, have deserted him, leaving the gates wide open and him utterly exposed on your shores.

You stand up, brushing a stray leaf from your skirt with a grace that feels utterly alien in this muddy, Munson-domain clearing. It’s a gesture that belongs in a catalog or a ballet, not here amongst the discarded beer cans and gnarled roots. You look at him expectantly, a single, perfect eyebrow arched in a silent question that feels louder than any Corroded Coffin solo.

“Well? You gonna give me a ride, or what?”

The question, so direct and laced with a challenge he desperately wants to prove himself worthy of, finally jump-starts his frozen motor functions. “Right. Yeah. The van. It’s, uh… this way,” he manages, his voice still rough with shock.

Now, the salt still clinging to your skin, sand somehow still hiding in places it has no business being, and Eddie is standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom like he’s about to receive a medical diagnosis.

He twists his shoulders toward the glass, then the other way.

He leans in a little closer.

“…Oh no,” he says.

You press against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “That sounds promising.”

He ignores you completely, lifting the edge of his shirt just enough to get a better look at the bright red spread across his shoulders and upper back. It’s an impressive gradient, honestly, pink turning into deep sunburned crimson like he tried to roast himself evenly and failed spectacularly.

Eddie squints at his reflection like it might lie to him.

“Does it look bad?” he asks finally.

There’s a beat where you consider being kind.

You look at him again, at the very obvious sunburn, the slightly panicked expression, the damp curls still clinging to his forehead, and the kindness comes out in the form of a grin you don’t even try to hide.

“It looks like you tried to become toast,” you hum.

Eddie gasps like you’ve betrayed him on a spiritual level. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

He turns fully now, abandoning the mirror as if it personally offended him, and points at his own shoulder. “Okay, but in my defense, I applied sunscreen.”

“You applied it once,” you correct.

“I re-applied emotionally,” he says, because that should count for something.

You laugh, stepping into the bathroom now. The tiles are cool under your feet, a welcome contrast to the lingering heat from outside. Eddie watches you in the mirror, waiting for a verdict from a higher authority.

You come up behind him instead, peering at his shoulders.

It really is just sunburn. Not bad-bad, just enough to be very obvious and very uncomfortable tomorrow.

“Alright,” you say after a moment. “Diagnosis: mildly roasted.”

Eddie groans. “I knew it.”

“But,” you add, reaching up to poke his shoulder lightly, “not fatal.”

He winces dramatically at the touch. “That hurt my feelings.”

“Your feelings are also sunburned.”

“That’s not even medically possible.”

“It is in your case.”

He lets out a long, suffering sigh and leans his hands on the sink, accepting his fate. “I am never going outside again.”

“You say that every summer.”

“This time I mean it.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “You had fun though.”

He pauses, his brows raising as his eyes find yours in the mirror. His voice drops a little softer. “Only because of you.”

The sentence changes the whole shape of him. The theatrics ease off just slightly, and panic fades into something more manageable.

You reach into the cabinet and pull out aloe gel, holding it up like a trophy. “Come here, disaster boy.”

Eddie perks up instantly. “Oh. You’re gonna fix me?”

“I’m going to attempt damage control.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” he says, already turning obediently back toward the mirror.

As you start smoothing the cool gel over his shoulders, he hisses once dramatically, then immediately relaxes, his entire body remembering what relief feels like.

“…Okay,” he mumbles after a moment. “This part I like.”

“You’re welcome.”

He glances at you in the mirror, expression softening in that quiet way he gets when he thinks you’re not looking. “Next time,” he says, “you’re in charge of sunscreen duty.”

“I was already in charge of sunscreen duty, you just didn’t listen.”

“Then you’re promoted,” he decides solemnly. “Head of not letting me turn into a lobster.”

You snort. “Big responsibility.”

“Very serious position,” he agrees, leaning back slightly into your touch like he’s settling in. “Requires dedication. Commitment. Emotional support.”

“Anything else?”

“Beach snacks,” he adds quickly.

You shake your head, smiling as you keep working the aloe into his sunburn. “Deal.”

And Eddie, still standing half-covered in aloe gel, looking at himself like he survived something important, says very quietly “…Worth it though.”

Your lips quirk and you kiss the tip of his nose, because that part doesn’t sound like a joke at all.

x

Divider @saradika-graphics

Eddie Munson blurbs

“Maybe you should remind me?” You ask him with the sweetest voice he’s sworn he’s ever heard, looking at him with eyes that carry a million stories he’ll never tire of hearing. He’s sure if angels are real you must have been misplaced here in Hawkins.

“Oh— I should remind you? Well if that’s what my girl needs…” Eddie pushes you back so gently a feather could have knocked you harder. Leaning you back onto the bed with one hand under your head; shifting to move one leg in between yours. Hair falling around you both causing the whole world to fall away.

“Eddie, Wayne is right out there!” You whisper, but even your best efforts can’t hide the smile in your voice or act like your hands aren’t already finding their way under his shirt.

“Hey you said it yourself. He’s watching his show, that means I have at least—“ he pauses to check his watch, although he’s not wearing one. But Eddie will never tire of the theatrics. “As long as it takes for me to make you forget your own name” your face flushes and your thighs press together at the way his voice changes the second he has you underneath him.

“What’s my record? 7 minutes right? Something like that.. yeah” he’s talking mostly to himself at this point, a good thing really considering your brains already half-off as you focus on the weight of him above you. “I reckon I can do it in five”.

Months. That how long it took you to convince Eddie to let you braid his hair. And a lot of begging. But hearing you beg was his weeks. It always was. Even when you were just friends. But after, you started dating he just couldn't say no when you begged him.

"Please. Please, Eddie. Let me braid your hair. Just this once. You can braid mine first. But pleasee" you begged him and gave him the best puppy eyes you can.

"No, Sweetheart. And stop looking at me with those eyes" he said and covered his eyes, so he won’t see your pleading look. It was another one of his weaknesses.

"Pleaseeee. You have the perfect hair for braiding. And I can't braid mine like that. Pretty please" you pleaded.

"Alright... fine. You can braid my hair. But only this one time. Got it? This is the one and only time I let you braid my hair" he said as he pulled his hand away from his eyes and he saw how your face lit up with happiness. Seeing you so happy about something small, made him happy too and he knew this is not gonna be the only time you'll braid his hair. He knew that if you ask him again, he's gonna agree again because he knew it'll make you happy.

"Yesss... thank youu" you said and jumped up in joy.

That's how you ended up with clumsily braided hair and a complaining Eddie. First, he braided your hair as you sat between his legs, and you gave him instructions on how to do it. It looked a little clumsily made but he did a pretty good job, considering this was the first time he ever braided hair.

And it was your turn. You were sitting on his bed while he was sitting on the floor between your legs. You parted his hair in three sections and started braiding. But he was moving around a lot which made it kinda impossible to braid his hair properly.

"Stop moving and let me braid your hair" you scolded him and pulled on his hair a little.

"Oww... okay. Fine" he said "How long is this going to take?" he asked.

"If you stay still and let me braid your hair properly not long" you said as you went back to braiding his hair. And luckily, now he stopped moving too much so you could finish braiding his hair faster. "Alright. It's done" you said a few minutes later.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Great" you said with a smile, and he got up to look at himself in the mirror. You watched him the whole time and you saw

the horror on his face as he see himself in the mirror.

"I look awful, Sweetheart. I'm definitely not going to let you do this again" he said and his hands went to the hairtie you put in his hair, secure the braids.

"Nooo" you said and jumped off his bed to stop him "You don't look bad at all. You look amazing. Please let your hair be like that. At least just a little. Please" you asked him nicely and he sighed in defeat.

Your breath hitches, just a little, before you can help it. Eddie must feel it, because he abandons his kisses to pull away to look at you. “Only if you want to,” He adds softly, yet you can tell he really wants you to. Even if you didn’t, you very much do, it’d be hard to say no to his pretty face. 

You nod, slowly, but not because you’re uncertain. More like that hesitance that still sits between you two, the one that comes with new relationships. Like you’re both trying to figure out the rules of a game you created. “Yeah,” you say quietly, “I want to.”

The smile he gives you is reward enough for your hesitation. He kisses you, on the lips this time, short and sweet and a little chapped. When he pulls away, you’re both smiling. 

The drive to Eddie’s trailer is short, since you’re coming from a gas station parking lot that’s only a little down the road. The windows are down, wind making his hair even bigger, if that was possible. When you arrive, headlights shining against the front door of the trailer, Eddie pauses after putting it in park. 

“My uncle is home,” he says slowly, a tone unusual, but not unwelcoming from him. He looks over at you, almost as if he’s bracing for something. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, because that’s the first thing that comes out. You’ve never met his uncle, despite having heard a handful of stories about him from Eddie. “Is that okay?”

He nods, then shrugs. “Yeah I just.. wanted you to know. Just in case you thought we were gonna be alone.”

You decide he’s being a bit silly as Eddie pulls open for you both. You’ve been here a couple times, for afterschool hangouts and on the weekends. You’re actually more surprised that you haven’t met Wayne already.

“Wayne?” Eddie calls out, dragging out his name dramatically. “I’m home.” 

As you step deeper into the trailer, its familiar scent wafts into your nose; motor oil, cologne, and a little bit of cigarettes. You hear before you see a sitcom playing quietly on the small tv, and that’s when you see Wayne. He’s slumped on the lumpy couch, a beer in his hand resting on his thigh. He looked exhausted, but you don’t miss the softness in his eyes as he looks at Eddie; then his eyes land on you. He wasn’t an old man, despite his graying hair and even grayer beard. 

Eddie holds out a hand behind him, urging you forward gently. His hand moves up to rest where your neck and shoulder meet, giving you a comforting squeeze. He introduces you, saying your name like it’s the cure for some disease and he’s proud to show it off.

“Hello,” You say, giving him a smile that you hope doesn’t look as shy as you feel. Your heartbeat pumps in your ears, palms a bit slick with sweat. “It’s nice to meet you.”

After a moment, Wayne smiles at you; you get the impression that this isn’t something he does very often. He tells you to sit, offering you food or a drink; the only reason you decline is because you’re sure that he’d made Eddie to get up and get it for you. 

Wayne isn’t a quiet man, you realize. Not shy either, he’s able to hold conversation and eye contact, and asks you questions about school and your family. It’s Eddie that’s being quiet, a rare occurrence that usually only happens when he’s upset, overwhelmed, or he’s busy watching something. Or someone. The latter, you figure, is the reason for right now. Why he’s sat on the armchair diagonally from you and Wayne, not saying much. You catch his eye every once in a while, but he just smiles at you. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be. 

Wayne’s voice fades in the background as Eddie’s gaze lingers, studying the way you sit on his couch, feet tucked beneath you, hands curled in your lap. He can tell you’re still a little nervous, sitting in his space with his family, but everytime he smiles at you like that, you’re reminded why you’re here. Why you’re doing this for that boy, the one with a loud laugh, gentle hands, and silver rings. When you catch Eddie’s eye again, he doesn’t say or do anything. Like this, right here, is all he wants. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

"M'kay I'm up, I'm up." You attempt to settle back into sleep as you hear Eddie taking quiet steps to the crib in your room and soothing the cries.

"Come on little man, mama needs her sleep or she gets grumpy and scary." You snort as you roll onto Eddie's now empty side of the bed, spreading yourself out comfortably as you breathe in the smell of Eddie from his pillows.

You fall back asleep listening to Eddie softly singing to Oscar as he scoops him up and heads downstairs. This from the man who for the first 2 nights of Oscar's life would not dare to move Oscar up or downstairs by himself for fear that he would drop him.

"Okay sir, here we have a recent vintage. Expressed from your mom's boob in the sunny plains of our living room." Eddie laughs to himself as he preps a bottle for the fussing baby cradled close to his body. Once prepped and warmed Eddie gently kicks the living room door open, juggling baby, burp cloth and bottle and settles down on the sofa, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he holds his son in his arms. 

"You're absolutely adorable, you know that?" Eddie kisses Oscar's head, breathing deeply the newborn smell, content to listen to the sound of Oscar breathing and suckling. Bottle now empty and baby burped, Eddie leans back slightly, adjusting Oscar so he's laying on his bare chest, soft cheek resting on a scar,

"You gotta get back to sleep Ozzy, you got lots of growing to do if you’re going to be the joint lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin with your old man.” Eddie squints at the clock in the dim light cast from a table lamp  "4am, shit little man no wonder we’re exhausted.” Eddie realises he's sworn and covers Oscar's ears after the fact,

"You didn't hear that." Eddie chuckles again as he gets up from the sofa, pausing by the kitchen to throw Oscar's bottle in the sink and the burp cloth ends up alongside it. Eddie stares for a second then shrugs, reasoning he'd rather throw the burp cloth in the sink accidentally instead of his newborn son. 

Oscar squirms a little as Eddie takes the first step to go upstairs and immediately freezes,

"Okay I'm not ready for advanced dadding like holding a wriggly baby while going upstairs, so just shh." Eddie coos quietly until Oscar settles back down and he is free to ascend the stairs. He's gotten good at putting Oscar back to bed and getting into bed without waking you up, even if he needs to roll you from his side, this time you stir a little and grumble before resting your head on Eddie’s chest and snuggling into his arms. It's moments like these, where the first rays of sunlight are starting to stream into the bedroom bathing the room in warm light and he can hear the soft breathing of your son, feel you in his arms that he has to pinch himself, just a little. Because for Eddie, this is closer to heaven than he ever thought he'd get.

The first two weeks pass in a blur of diapers and bottles and that one time Eddie had to catch pee in his cupped hands mid diaper change so it didn't land on the carpet. You'd laughed until your stitches hurt with that one. You lived in your own alternate dimension with Ozzy and Eddie, a baby bubble with only room for the 3 of you. It was cosy and contented. Your families and friends had respected both of your wishes to spend the first few weeks just the three of you, allowing you some much needed time to make the adjustment to being parents and to rest all you could. So the first time Eddie attempts to leave the bubble you panic a little.

“It’s just for an appointment with the eye doctor, I will be back in like an hour.” Eddie presses his hands into your shoulders soothingly, offering a warm smile, “What if I pick up your favourite snacks on my way home?”

Your eyes narrow, aware he’s bribing you but since having Ozzy your hunger has increased to ravenous demon levels, “1 hour?”

Eddie nods, “Scout’s honour.”

A snort escapes you “You were never a scout!” 

Eddie grabs his keys from the bowl near the front door, “No, but I do promise I will be back as quickly as I can.” He blows a kiss to you and one to the bassinet set up in your living room as he heads out.

All things considered, Ozzy was an easy baby, keep him fed and he barely makes a fuss, miss a feed and its armageddon. You settle on the couch, pulling a blanket over you as you flick through the channels, you settle for a rerun of Cheers and glance at the bassinet, Ozzy is awake so you scoop him up into your arms for some cuddles, planting a kiss on his forehead. For all the trouble labour caused you, you can’t deny it was worth it for this moment, holding your son close, his fuzzy dark hair tickling your nose. You shift so that Ozzy’s tummy is against your chest, both giving him his needed tummy time, and providing you with a direct line to sniffing his head. You realise the episode is nearly over and you’ve spent the entire time staring at Ozzy, who is somehow still awake, blue eyes staring up at you. 

The second episode finishes just as you hear Eddie pull up in the drive, Oscar has long since dozed off and rendered you nap trapped as Eddie comes around the door, brown paper bag in hand, his gaze softens when he sees the two of you, “Room for one more?” He asks as he gently sits beside you, careful not to shift the sofa and wake the baby. “Always, as long as you brought snacks home. How are the old eyes then?” 

Eddie shrugs “Getting some glasses made, they reckon I need them for reading and driving, no big deal.” 

Your parents, and Wayne had been patient with the bubble situation until week 3 when they started asking to come over. Wayne tried to be more casual about it than your parents had, suggesting he should pop over to check out any repair jobs you guys might need doing. So finally you relent, opting to invite them both over for lunch. Eddie had cooked, having found you asleep in bed with Oscar snoozing away in his crib, you had awoken to the sound of the oven timer going off, fear gripping you over what Eddie had cooked. You found Oscar still asleep so you plodded downstairs peering around the banisters,

“Relax, it's mac and cheese, no experimenting this time!” Eddie says as he sees the apprehension on your face as you come into the kitchen. 

You’re still sleepy when you speak so your voice comes out much croakier than expected, “What time is it?”

“12:30, they’ll be here in about 30 minutes, I did mean to wake you sooner but I wanted to make sure everything was ready so you didn’t stress.” Eddie smiles apologetically as he adds the finishing touches and returns the dish to bake in the oven. 

You glance around, the place is practically sparkling, even the bottle steriliser has been cleaned up and clean bottles stored. Overcome with gratitude at such a simple gesture, you wrap your arms around Eddie and pull him in for a kiss, Eddie’s hands immediately find your waist and lean you into a counter, pressing his body into yours, butterflies filling your stomach, your hands slide up from his waist, stroking up his chest through the fabric of his shirt, tracing up the neck you love to kiss and bite, until finally they’re tangling in his hair, locking him in. Eddie is similarly pre-occupied with your body, hands tracing over newly established curves, taking you all in. Breaking the kiss to come up for air feels like giving up, but when Eddie rests his forehead on yours, brown eyes staring into yours you know he feels the same.

“Eddie, we can’t… you know.” Your breath comes fast, heavy with want. Eddie smiles ruefully, peppering kisses along your jaw,

“I’m well aware, that doesn't mean we can’t enjoy this though.” His arms once more wrap around you, holding you close to his chest, you sigh contentedly and press into the cuddle. The moment is peaceful for a few minutes before there is a gentle knock at the door, and a cry from upstairs, alerting you that Ozzy is one minute overdue his feed, and that is unacceptable. You dash upstairs as Eddie invites your family in, letting them know,

“She’s just upstairs with the chaos goblin, she’ll be down soon.” Your parents laugh and Eddie shows them through to the living room, you can hear muffled conversation and polite laughter travelling up the stairs as you sit in your rocking chair, feeding Ozzy. Despite your hopes, your shirt becomes another spit up victim forcing you to get changed quickly before seeing your family. 

You’re descending the stairs as Eddie and Wayne embrace in the hall, Wayne clocks the baby in your arms but stays in his conversation with Eddie, not wanting to make his nephew feel pushed aside. You leave them talking in the hall as you head into the living room where your parents sit,

“Okay granny and grandpa, who wants first cuddles?” Your parents groan at their new titles but your mother can’t hide the enthusiasm for cuddles and so you gently hand Oscar to her, supporting his head until she’s got hold of him, your father peering over her shoulder,

“He’s grown so much hasn’t he!” Your father exclaims, “Kids gonna be a basketball player if he stays this tall.”

“Perish the thought.” Eddie jokes as he and Wayne come in. After both of your parents have soaked up their baby cuddles you take Oscar back, planning to hand him over to Wayne as the timer dings once more. Eddie announces it’s time for food and starts serving up at the table, you plan to eat yours later, but Wayne offers to hold Oscar so you can enjoy your food while it’s still hot.

“You sure?” Wayne smiles and nods, you don’t ask for second confirmation, you hand Oscar over to his very proud grandpa and sit at the table, enjoying the conversation and freshly baked mac and cheese. You glance over to check in with Wayne and see him deep in conversation with Oscar and smile, it turns out talking to babies like they’re fully grown people is a family trait.

The rest of the afternoon passes, and as much as you loved the 3 person baby bubble you’re glad to have expanded it. You head to bed, feeling aglow, warm and loved. Eddie stays downstairs, tidying up, he insisted. You lay in bed, dozing lightly until you feel the mattress depress slightly under Eddie’s weight. You roll over, eyes half open until you clock something… different.

Eddie. Wearing glasses. Your eyes snap open fully.

“Well, hello handsome.” 

Eddie blushes, unaware you were awake, the tips of his ears feel hot as he feels you appraising him, “They look stupid, I know.”

“No, Eddie, they look really good!” You push on his chest lightly and his eyes narrow, assessing your face for any sign you might be making fun of him, he finds nothing but earnestness. 

“You sure?” 

“Absolutely positive. Now, let me try them on!” You hold out a hand and he places the glasses in your hand, you slide them up your nose and grimace at the change in the world

“Eddie what the fuck?” 

“What?” Eddie turns to you, concerned,

“You’ve been driving us places and you’re blind!” You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it a little funny,

“Oh come off it, it's not so bad!” You hand them back to him, stifling giggles. Eddie rolls his eyes as he places them back on. “Now, go to sleep, you menace.” You shift closer, head resting on his chest, hair tickling Eddie’s nose, he shifts slightly and then wraps his arms around you in a warm embrace.

Dustin is the first to arrive, leaving Steve and Robin in the car as he practically runs to your front door, stopping himself shy of hammering on the door when he remembers the tiny human he is meeting, instead opting for a knock that Eddie misses and you only catch because you’re in the hallway, heading back to the lounge. Steve and Robin follow Dustin into the house a few paces behind him, greeting you politely but their eyes searching for a baby and immediately wandering once they realise your arms are empty. It makes you laugh a little as you gesture towards the lounge where Eddie, chest puffed out in pride, happily shows off your son.

“He’s so small!” Dustin whispers loudly as you gesture at everyone to sit, perching yourself beside Eddie,

“Can I, I mean, do you mind if I hold him?” Steve asks, a tinge of nervousness creeping into his voice, Eddie glances at you, a silent check in and you nod,

“Not that I don’t trust you Steve, but could you wash your hands first?” Eddie smiles, meaning no offence and Steve nods, heading into your kitchen to wash his hands. Eddie hands Oscar over easily, Steve seeming to be a natural at holding a baby, a quirk that surprises absolutely no one in the room. Oscar fusses slightly but settles as Steve coos at him, Dustin leans over, stroking the few dark curls that rest on Oscar’s head while Robin flicks her gaze between Oscar and you, finally speaking up when you raise an eyebrow,

“That head is HUGE.” 

“I am well aware, Robin, I didn’t think I’d sit down ever again.” Eddie laughs and pulls you close by the waist, while Dustin and Steve groan in unison. The sudden noise unsettling Oscar in Steve’s arms, who lets his displeasure known with loud cries, panic clouds Steve’s face and he can’t pass the crying infant to Eddie fast enough,

“Dude! You broke their baby!” Dustin swats the back of Steve’s head causing Steve to whip around to respond before he double takes, looking Dustin up and down.

“When did you get tall?? No, you were not that tall yesterday.” Steve’s words make Eddie look too, 

“What the hell Henderson? Okay, you’re not allowed to grow that fast, you hear me Ozzy?” Eddie directs the last sentence to the baby in his arms, who he is gently rocking, soothing his cries, a small straining grunt from Oscar prompts Eddie to lift him into the air and sniff,

“Uh-oh, getting a whiff of danger.” You snort as Eddie excuses himself to change Oscar’s diaper. You turn to Robin, “Did Nancy not want to come with you guys today?” she shrugs,

“Not sure. Maybe she didn’t want to meet Oscar with “ten kids and an RV” sitting beside her.” The tips of Steve’s ear turn bright red as you all erupt into giggles. 

“Oh c’mon Steve, it’s funny.” Robin kicks at him, “Who’d imagine Eddie would have a kid before you huh?” 

Steve doesn’t reply, now thoughtful,

“Hmm. I’m not saying I doubted him, but I never expected to see Eddie like this.” Steve says quietly while Robin and Dustin nod in agreement, 

“What did you expect?” You narrow your eyes at Steve, 

“Easy. I’m not criticising him. It's just, he’s been through a lot of trauma. I thought it would be more difficult for him to settle down like this, he’s doing amazingly.” You know Steve is meaning it as a testament to Eddie’s strength, but Steve has never had to hold Eddie while he sobbed, making himself almost sick in his own self-doubt that he could be a good father.

“Guess I’m just a natural.” Eddie’s voice calls from the top of the stairs as you open your mouth to respond. Steve goes to respond and Eddie holds up a hand, a reassuring smile on his face,

“I’m flattered you think I’m doing a good job, but believe me I’m making it look easy. I’m still a wreck inside.” 

Eddie hands Ozzy to you, flopping down beside you and kissing the top of Ozzy’s head, before your cheek.

"But thankfully, I have these two keeping me sane." 

The afternoon passes swiftly and before you know it your friends are saying hushed goodbyes to a snoozing Oscar in his basinet and pulling you and Eddie in for fond farewell hugs. The house falls silent for a few minutes after you hear Steve’s car pull out and you exhale quietly, flopping onto the sofa with Eddie moving in sync with you.

Elbows resting on his knees, his messy hair fell in waves just brushing his shoulders, full lips taking a drag on a rolled cigarette. Peeking out of his shirt collar, between the waves of hair, you can see a skull like tattoo on the side of his neck.

Is that new? Oh God, he's so hot. Okay just walk past, act normal.

You saunter past him with as much confidence as you could muster.

"Hey Mr Munson." You nod in his direction, trying to stop your voice quaking, fumbling for your keys.

"Hey sweet thing. You good?"

Jesus, does he really need to call me that?

The nickname travels to the pit of your stomach making you squirm hotly.

"Yeah sir, just a long shift at the bar. Idiots tonight, you know?"

Mr Munson shifts in his chair taking a sudden breath in.

"Shit sweetheart, sorry to hear that. Wanna talk about it?"

Well, it couldn't hurt, right?

You flop down in the chair bedside him, gesturing for a drag on his cigarette.

"Can I?"

He smiles wickedly and puts his roll up to your mouth. The roughness of his fingertips brushes on your lips making you clench, almost rucking your hips up, albeit briefly. You hope he doesn't notice. Of course he does.

Taking half a hit you realise that it's not a fucking cigarette, it's a blunt. It's not like you'd never tried anything like that but it was  certainly not what you were expecting. The heavy, sweet, herb feeling lays on your tongue. Eyes wide you breathe out, coughing slightly much to his amusement.

He holds it out at you so you can take a proper hit. Sucking at the blunt so you can take it all in, your lips brush against his calloused hands, adorned with rings.

Breathing out, you gaze at him. His smile splits his face wide open, thick tongue rolling to a point, licking across his upper lip in a teasing manner. You cannot help but focus on the tongue stud pierced right through the middle of the muscle, a long stainless steel bar penetrating his whole tongue. You had certainly never noticed it before. It's presence made you wet, sticking between your thighs at the sheer thought of what he could do with it.

"Something on your mind pretty girl?" A cocky side grin plastered across his handsome features.

Shit, I was totally staring.

Blushing, you look away and try to change the subject.

"You know, you should really warn a girl before she takes a hit of a blunt."

He laughs deep in his throat. "I thought you knew! So, why was today so terrible?"

"Just customers thinking that I'm nice to them because I want them, not because it's literally my fuckin' job. Couple dudes tried to hit on me, one of them grabbed my ass." You sigh into the night air.

"Shit, I hope you taught him a lesson."

"Of course, hit him on the head with my tray."

He laughs out loud at that, throwing his head back. You gawp at his neck, sexy stubble running down past his Adam's apple. Turning his head towards you, he flashes his teeth.

"Didn't know you had it in you. Good girl."

Holy shit.

Your whole lower body clenches at his words of praise as you take in a shaky breath. The apples of your cheeks are on fire. Mr Munson gives you a knowing look, eyes glittering darkly.

You stand up on slightly unsure legs.

"Okay I'm- I'm gonna have a shower. See you around Mr Munson."

You fumble for your keys. Turning to your door you hear a gravelly voice behind you.

"Eddie. Call me Eddie."

********************

A few nights later and your surrounded by the rough brick interior of the bar, busy wiping down sticky tables. There's only half an hour until closing; half an hour and you can go home and rest. It's pretty empty tonight, just three regulars dotted around in the semi dark, nursing their drinks.

You haven't been able to get your latest encounter with Mr Munson, sorry, Eddie, off your mind. You liked to think you were a strong independent woman. You were 22 after all; having had to live on your own since you were 18, life hadn't exactly been kind. You had to be strong to survive. So why exactly was it that a few moments with Eddie had turned you into a blushing, giggling school girl? He had disarmed you with a few words and a rough grin and now you couldn't stop thinking of him. All he had done was call you a good girl and you turned into one. A simpering mess.

Doing a final sweep for glasses, you make your way back behind the bar just as the door opens and a brisk breeze blows in.

Oh fuck its him.

You see his broad frame silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, leather jacket hanging open. His wild mane is in a low messy bun for once, tendrils of loose hair moving in the wind. He stalks over to you and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. Dark eyes finding yours, he leans against the bar on one elbow, towering over you.

Plastering your customer service mask across your face; social armour to hide the nerves, you smile at him.

"Well good evening sir, what can I get ya?"

He grins at you devilishly, biting his lip, like he wants to devour you whole.

"What did I tell you? Call me Eddie."

"Sorry Eddie."

"Good girl. I'll have a bourbon, please."

Only just realising your mouth is hanging open, you slam it shut, cheeks burning. He looks at you smugly, like he's just proven a theory. Your body goes on autopilot, grabbing a glass, adding ice, measuring bourbon.

When you hand his drink over he slides over a twenty dollar bill.

"Keep the change."

You blink at him. "I couldn't, it's too much-"

"Then have a drink on me. I just finished a piece and got paid today. I'm celebrating."

You wouldn't usually, but you're on your own and it's nearly closing. Fuck it.

You pour yourself a bourbon, adding a dash of soda water to yours and take a sip. Eddie beams at you.

"Well thank you." You smile back at him, losing yourself in those dark brown eyes of his, watching the way the skin crinkles at the corners when he grins.

He sticks the ball of his tongue piercing out, rolling it between his lips as he stares at you. It seems like a subconscious movement, you're not sure he's aware that he's doing it.

"Why do you have that?" You blurt out, word vomit pouring off your tongue.

"Have what, pretty girl?" You're staring at his mouth, and he understands, sticking his tongue out at you.

"Thith?" He lisps at you, still poking his tongue out. Giggling, you nod.

His hand drops to the bar, thumb reaching out, stroking back and forth over the knuckles on the back of your hand. An involuntary shiver creeps down your spine at the touch of his rough skin.

"Oh, sweet thing. I think you know exactly what it's for."

His eyes are deep pools, inviting you in. Your thighs clench at his words, biting your lip.

"Oh."

He smirks at you, humming. You pull your hand away, looking at the time.

"Er, just a sec."

You move away slightly and shout out last call. Two of the patrons leave; the other walks over to the bar, slight stagger to his step. Serving him a final Scotch, he pounds it back and walks outside.

It's just you and Eddie. All alone.

"I've got to, um, finish closing up."

"I'll give you a ride if you'll have another drink with me."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

He pouts at you, looking at you with big doe eyes. "Please?"

Well fuck.

"Okay, just let me finish up."

You collect the rest of the glasses, wipe down the last of the sides and sort the nights takings, getting it all in the small safe in the back room.

After locking the front door you return, hang your bar apron up and pour the drinks. Eddie gestures for you to join him on the bar stool next to his. You perch on it lightly; he reaches for his wallet but you wave it away.

"No, I've already done the takings, this ones on me. For the ride, you know."

He shrugs, returning the wallet to his back pocket.

"So" you say, taking a sip of your drink, "you said you finished a piece. You're a tattoo artist, right?"

"Yep, that's right."

"Thought so, I heard a rumour."

"Rumour, eh? What else you heard?" Eyes glittering, he took a mouthful of bourbon.

You giggle "Hmm, well, I heard you were some Satanic cult leader in high school-"

He waved that off, "oh that's so old. If playing D&D is satanic then I'm the devil himself." He sticks his tongue out again, creating little horns with his fingers on his forehead.

You laugh at that, starting to finally feel at ease in his company. The bourbon helped.

"Someone said you sacrificed a goat in the woods once."

He nearly spits his drink at that one. "Now that's more like it, even I've not heard that one. Got any more?"

You blush, realising you've only heard one more.

"I heard you had... other piercings." You mumble, not wanting to say it too loud despite the lack of company.

"What other piercings?" He eyes never leave yours as he finishes his drink.

You're sure it's not normal to have so much blood in your cheeks. You can hear the blood swooshing in your ears. Finishing your own drink for courage, you gaze down at your hands in your lap.

"I heard you have a pierced..."

"Dick?" He ducks his head, trying to catch your eye again, cheeky smile on his face.

"Yeah." Your whole body feels hot and small under his gaze.

He just smirks at you and shrugs.

Is that a no? A yes? Now I'm dying to know!

He winks at your obvious frustration and says "come on I'll take you home."

********************

The ride home in Eddie's Mustang is uneventful. A little small talk is shared, but mostly you're staring out the window, trying to catch glimpses of him when he wasn't looking, eyes wandering to his crotch.

Pretty soon he was dropping you off at your front door, hand leaning on the door frame, crowding into your personal space. Just breathing the same air as him felt suffocating in the best way.

"Well, goodnight then sweet thing." He winks at you, glancing at your lips. For a split second you think he's going to kiss you, but he breaks away and turns to leave.

"Do you wanna come in?" Shit did I just say that out loud?

"You sure?"

You nod and he throws you a wolfish grin. You've never felt so much like a lamb in your entire life. You may as well baa at this point.

You lead him into your tiny apartment, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch, turning on a couple of dim lamps as you go. He flops down, manspreading, large hand resting on his knee.

"You want another drink? I've got bourbon but no ice I'm afraid."

"Sure thing sweets." He responds whilst slipping his jacket off, placing it on a nearby chair.

"You mind if I smoke? Just a cigarette, promise."

You smile at the reference, "sure, there's an ashtray just there."

He pulls out a pre rolled smoke, lighting it and taking a few drags.

When you've poured the drinks you make your way to the other side of the couch, placing the glasses on the coffee table. He offers his cigarette to you. As you nod, he shifts closer, holding it to your lips. You take a couple of drags, relishing the feel of his fingers on your mouth. Every time your skin touches his it sends a flutter through your nerves.

You watch him take a sip of his drink, seeing him press that perfect bottom lip to the glass. He drinks and puts the glass down. Not even looking your way, he says "something you wanna share, pretty girl?"

"Do you? Is it?" You say doltishly. Well done, real eloquent.

"You really wanna know, huh?"

"Yes!" You say loudly, bourbon well and truly in the drivers seat for that one.

He laughs and looks at you dead in the eye, another chance to make you squirm.

"Yes."

Gaping at him for a few seconds, your brain and mouth finally connect.

"Do you- did it hurt? What's it look like? What kinda-"

Stopping you mid babble with a wave of his hand, he simply asks, "you wanna see it?"

Brain short circuiting, you merely stare at him dumbfounded. You nod, curiosity well and truly getting the best of you.

He stands up and undoes his belt, sound echoing through the apartment. Your gaze is fixated on his large hands as they deftly unbutton his jeans. A glimpse of a tattoo teases you on his lower abdomen. His happy trail is peeking out, leading to the large thatch of hair that snakes down to his manhood. You swallow hard.

He slowly pulls his boxers down and you scoot closer to have a look. It emerges from the fabric, to your surprise half hard.

You gape at it. You've seen dicks before. A handful. And they are just that, a handful. This is more than a handful. You think you'd struggle to get your hand around his. The girth of it was truly intimidating. It certainly looked long too, and that was at half mast.

The end of it was pink and rounded, and the piercing went through the slit at the top, down to the underside of the tip. The piercing was thicker than you imagined, a curved bar with thick steel balls on either end. You never thought you would be into this sort of thing, but just looking at it made you think about what it felt like. What it tasted like. You wet your lips and continue to stare.

On instinct, your hand reaches out. You only notice when it meets the roughness of his jeans, touching ever so closely to his exposed member.

You look up at Eddie's face. He's looking right back at you sinfully.

"Did it hurt?"

"Not as much as you'd think. Ached like a bitch the first time I got a boner though."

You giggle, staring at it again.

"Can I touch it?" What the hell. It just slipped out, unbidden. You see his dick twitch at the thought.

Eddie chuckles darkly. "Did you seriously just ask if you-"

"Sorry that was dumb of me-"

"Sure you can sweet thing."

Before your mind can even comprehend what's happening, your hand shoots forward with sudden bravery, reaching out to hold it. You inspect the tip, looking at the piercing, feeling his hardness grow under your delicate touch. Inquisitively you rub the jewellery with your thumb, inadvertently smoothing the pad of your thumb over his tip in the process. Eddie hisses through his teeth.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?"

"No," Eddie manages through gritted teeth, "just felt really fuckin' good."

Oh.

You back off, moving your hands from his piercing and placing them in your lap. He tucks himself away again, doing up his jeans, subconsciously palming his length.

"Well? What do you think?" He sits on the couch next to you, denim clad knee touching yours.

"It's really big Eddie."

He laughs, throwing his arm over the back of the sofa.

"You talkin' about the piercing or my dick?"

"Both." You couldn't help it. It had to be said. It was true. You knock your drink back, feeling entirely too sober for this conversation.

Eddie's mouth splits into a lazy smug smile. Finishing his own drink, he turns to you, eyes roaming over your body.

"So, do I get a turn now sweet thing?"

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "At what?"

Well, you got to touch me. Can I touch you?"

Your eyes widen at his brazen attitude, but you'd be lying if you said this wasn't the reason you had invited him in in the first place. The very air around you feels heavy, hot with anticipation.

"Ok."

You stand up shakily, mirroring his movements from earlier, unsure hands unbuttoning your jeans. Eddie's eyes travel down to your core, predatory gaze shamelessly wandering over you. Your jeans are a little big, slipping straight to your ankles when they're undone. You kick them off and away. Standing there in your tank top and tiny white panties you've never felt so exposed in your life.

Eddie stands up for a second looking down at you, eyes shining with mischief. He winks, and drops to his knees between the couch and the coffee table, grabbing your hips and pulling you to face him.

Sizeable hands hovering over the hem of your underwear, he looks up at you. "Can I? Can I take these off?"

You nod, cheeks flaring with heat.

Eddie licks his lips, eyes never leaving your cunt. "I'm gonna need you to say it, sweet thing."

"Y-yes Eddie." You manage to stumble out.

"Atta girl."

He peels them off. They stick for a moment between your thighs, slick and heat pouring from your core. The tops of your thighs are already damp with expectancy. Your muscles clench, pressing together with angst. Eddie pries your thighs apart slightly, thumbs massaging calming circles into the flesh.

Eddie presses a kiss to your mound, stubble scratching the delicate skin ever so slightly.

"Eddie what are you doing?"

"You said I can touch you."

"Yeah, so why-"

Eddie's tongue pushes between your folds firmly, tongue bar flicking right over your clit.

The noise you make is nearly inhuman, breath knocked out of your lungs in shock. Your legs buckle at the knees, ass falling to the carpet. He takes the opportunity to wedge his head between your legs, your thighs pushed as wide as far as the narrow space allowed, stuck between the sofa and the table.

His stubble is burning the insides of your thighs, roughly rubbing against your soft skin. Eddie licks into you, pushing his tongue inside your hole. You feel the warm wetness of his thick tongue and the foreign bump of hard steel forcing shockwaves of pleasure into you. The moan he rips from you reverberates in your chest, full of want.

Eddie groans into you, tongue making it's way to your clit, running in dizzying circles. The feeling is almost too much as you buck up into him, writhing your back on the carpet.

"Oh my God, Eddie!"

You can practically feel him smirking against your dripping pussy, getting his large hands underneath your ass so he can push his face into you even further. His tongue is everywhere, eating you out messily, hungry for you. The occasional rub of steel sends your senses into overload, hips rutting shamelessly into his face.

He moves one hand from underneath you and pushes two fingers deep onto your cunt. You're on the verge of screaming, tears gathering in your eyes, overwhelmed with pleasure. The pressure of your desire collects in the pit of your stomach.

His fingers make you feel so full, reaching somewhere you've never been able to touch on your own. The rough sure movements of his hand so close to sending you over the edge, pussy grateful to have something to clench around.

"Eddie! Holy fuck." You cry out, an unsolicited tear spilling from your eye.

Eddie's mouth unlatches from your heat briefly.

"You gonna come, pretty girl? Come on, soak my face, that's my girl." And he's diving straight back in, tongue movements unmatched, strong fingers fucking into you. Desperate, filthy noises pour from your throat at the sudden onslaught.

Tensing up, you feel the unimaginable tight hot ball of desire suddenly drop. The feeling ignites through you like wildfire, coalescing into a burning, broken scream of his name.

Once you've chased your release as far as it could possibly take you, your back finally touches the floor again. Eddie moves away from you, sitting up, gazing at your fucked out form. Panting, flushing, sweating, you manage to look at him.

Eddie looks wild, feral, hair a mess, face covered and dripping with your slick. You can even see a wet shiny patch on his forehead. You giggle, dopey in your post orgasm haze.

"What? Have I got something on my face?" Eddie stares at you unblinking. You laugh loudly at that, pointing to where it was on his forehead. He laughs back and pulls his t shirt off, wiping his sticky face all over it before tossing it onto the sofa.

Your eyes go wide at the sight of him shirtless. Taunt, muscular frame, dark patch of hair covering his chest, matching the rough hair of his happy trail. He is littered with tattoos, some dark and bold, others lighter and faded. There's small patches of alabaster skin here and there. He's glistening, clearly having worked up a slight sweat just from the force of which he'd eaten you out. Muscles shining, catching the dim light.

He catches your lust filled stare and leans over you, caging your head with his strong arms.

"So, you wanna know why I've got the other piercing?" Sinful smirk turning his mouth up at the corners.

You crash your lips into his, throwing your arms around his neck. Desperate hands snake into his hair as you open your mouth to deepen the kiss. Eddie's kisses are messy but skilful, one hand moulding to the back of your head, pushing you towards him almost painfully. The need for each other is tangible, bodies colliding, rolling into one another. He sits up, pulling you along with him by the waist, tongue continuously dipping into your mouth. Finally, you break from the kiss just to breathe. It's like all the air has been sucked from the room and all you can breathe is Eddie.

He's kissing along your jaw line, down your neck; yearning, robust kisses. Heaving breaths are coming from each of you.

"Bedroom?' Eddie manages between heavy panting and pecks.

You gesture to the hall and he wastes no time in standing up, pulling you along with him, eliciting a surprised squeal from you. You wrap your legs around his waist, firm hands holding you steady, as he attempts to navigate your hallway whilst still kissing you.

Nearly tripping on your discarded jeans, he slams your back into the wall. You couldn't care less, tongue invading his mouth, pressing your naked heat against his solid bulge. His groans are so low they're almost growls, bearish and dominant. He takes the opportunity to press your form against the wall so he can pull your tank top over your head, eyes rolling back at your braless chest.

Finally, he carries you through your bedroom door, dropping you onto the bed. Unbuckling his belt and exposing himself to you for the second time today, this time he's taking his clothes off completely, standing in front of you naked in all his glory. Further tattoos cover his hairy legs, you see his thick thighs flexing. He gives you a ravening look; predacious in its delivery, with a smile that belies the lust in his eyes.

Quivering before him, he roughly widens your legs and slots his hips in between. You feel the hard shaft of his dick pressing against your slick folds, whimpering at the contact.

Hovering over you, one of his hands engulfs the side of your face, stroking down to your chin, holding you there. You stare at him open mouthed, consumed by the feeling of him rubbing up and down your wet pussy.

"You sure you want this, sweet thing?"

"Yes, Eddie please." Your voice doesn't sound like you, its smaller, meek. Your eyes plead with him.

Leaning in to you further, his hot breath whispers, deep voice on the shell of your ear. "Are you sure you can take it? Can you be a good girl for me?"

You moan loudly at him, small hands clasping at his biceps in desperation.

"Yes, please Eddie, I'll be so good for you!" You writhe underneath him.

He chuckles, biting his lip. "I knew you were into that. You got a condom?"

"No I'm on the pill, I need you, please."

"Holy shit." Eddie wastes no more time, rubbing his cock up against your entrance, strange feeling of the piercing hard against your slippery cunt.

He starts to push into you and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out. You grip his shoulders hard, trying so hard to take him. The stretch is intense. He's looking at you with concern, softer than he's ever looked at you.

"You gotta relax, my good girl, or its gonna hurt."

You nod, pupils blown, trying so hard not to clench around him. He bottoms out, the final push making you whimper.

Stroking your face, he gives you a moment to adjust.

"So fuckin' beautiful like this."

Your cheeks burn at the praise, lips enveloping his in a soft kiss.

He moves, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in. Your eyes roll back at the feeling, a loud whine escaping from your lips. The burning feeling has been replaced with pure ecstasy. You're sure you can feel the steel of the piercing hitting that spot inside you.

Thrusting into you slowly a couple of times, you already feel pressure in your stomach, knots tied tight and begging to be released. The sensation tightens further, shoots of it flying down your legs and up your spine. You clench around him hard, moaning.

"Fuck Eddie I'm gonna cum, fuck." You pant out, eyes wide.

"Already? Shit you're gonna give me an ego."

"You already- oh God, fuck- you already have one."

He laughs loud and thrusts into you harder. Instantly you release, the ropes holding your stomach snapping. You come with a high pitched squeal of his name. You hear your wetness before you can feel it, a squelching noise resonating with each drive into your sopping cunt.

"Oh fuck, sweet thing, you squirted. Soaked me. You're- perfect" he groans. You keen at the praise.

Getting on his knees he pulls you bodily into him, slamming into you harder, hands digging at the flesh of your hips. You've never felt so full in your life, his cock piercing nudging your g spot with each thrust.

Eddie's grunting with effort, hair completely loose now, wild around his shoulders. Your fingernails bite into his flexing muscles leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"Shit, sweet thing, oh fuck."

Eddie pushes himself forcefully back on top of you, folding you in half, knees pressed against your stomach.

"Oh Eddie!"  It's just so overwhelming. You're full to the brim with him, satisfaction coating your insides, eyelids coated with emotion. Tears spring out the corners of your eyes, running down your temples. You're trembling, inundated with emotion and sensation.

"Hey, hey, you ok?" He slows.

"Yes fuck please Eddie don't fucking stop!"

Grinning wickedly he thrusts into you without restraint, slamming his hip bones into the flesh of your thighs, cock breaching you like nothing ever before.

Clamping down around him, your third orgasm is an ocean; wave after wave of sinful pleasure washing over the very fabric of your being, stripping you back to your bare components and leaving you breathless, sweating, and as exposed as a raw nerve. You babble, and cry, and whine his name, eyes tight shut, utterly taken by the moment.

Eddie's plunges into you start to falter. Feeling him twitching, becoming impossibly harder inside you he comes, spilling his seed deep into your cunt. The warm, rushing feeling just expands the length of your own release, waves finally ebbing and retreating.

Eddie pulls out from you, leaving you feeling emptier than ever before. He lies on his side next to you, thumb approaching to rub a stray tear from your cheek. You're both perspiring; glowing forms gasping for air.

Finally catching some semblance of breath, he strokes your cheek again, wide grin dissipating on his face.

"You ok pretty girl?"

"Yeah you could say that." You huffed a laugh, still trying to focus on how he'd made you feel.

"But you cried?" Its a question, but he looks concerned, hands attempting to comfort you.

"It was just, so much. Too good, you know." Taking in his smirk you say "don't you let that go to your head!"

"Bit fuckin' late for that" he laughs. "C'mere."

He gathers you up in his strong arms, holding you close, and kisses you on the forehead. The affection honestly takes you by surprise, expecting him to have bolted by this point, having got what he wanted.

"Can I level with you?"

Oh shit here we go.

"I've wanted to do that since you moved in." He grins at you.

"Oh, really?" You look up at him, surprised that he'd been feeling the same as you. "Well, same. You're really hot."

He laughs and strokes your back.

"You working tomorrow?"

"No, why? Are you?"

"No. I wanna take you out somewhere, if you want." He almost looks embarrassed. Almost.

"Are you asking me out on a date Mr Munson?" You smirk at him in disbelief.

"I mean, yeah, if you wanna. Unless you just wanted this to be a one time thing, I get it, I can just leave." There's a quaver to his voice. A weakness your not used to hearing.

You stare up at him. Cocky, confident Eddie Munson, was about as unsure as you were. You giggle.

"I'd love to go on a date with you." Smiling, you attempt to hide it into his inked chest.

"So, wanna take a shower?"

"Well" you say, leaning up on your elbow, "we could. Or..."

"Or what, sweet thing?" He rubs your arm, furrowing his brow.

"Or, we could do that again."

Tag list (please reblog this fic if you want to stay in the tags ILY ❤)